


Confidence Man

by Deastar



Series: White Collar - Classic Slash Clichés [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-16
Updated: 2009-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastar/pseuds/Deastar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Neal takes a 		deep breath, puts his hand on the doorknob, and puts on his face for one of the 	biggest con jobs he’s ever pulled.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confidence Man

**Author's Note:**

> What would I do without my extremely talented beta reader, [](http://laulan.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://laulan.livejournal.com/)**laulan**? This fic is part of a set of five stories based on classic slash clichés – in this case, sex pollen. This fic was written before 1x7 “Free Fall” aired.
> 
> ETA: This fic is now available in a [Russian translation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/627308) by Elga!
> 
> WARNING for the consent issues inherent in the sex pollen trope.

When Elizabeth answers the phone with a breathless, “Hello?” Neal deliberately keeps his voice smooth and soothing, trying not to alarm her.

“Hi, Elizabeth. It’s Neal. We have… a situation.”

Elizabeth, of course, is too good for his tricks.

“Oh my god, something’s happened to Peter. Is he in danger?”

Neal considers this.

“Ninety percent no,” he comes up with, which he hopes will keep Elizabeth calm while still impressing upon her the urgency of the situation.

“Ninety. Percent. No?” Elizabeth’s voice is dangerous with patience.

“Peter is fine for now,” Neal assures her. “But we really need you to drive up here as soon as possible.”

“To Buffalo?” Elizabeth asks, sounding dismayed. “Neal, you know of course I’ll do whatever I have to to help Peter, but that’s hours away, and I’m in the middle of work, so I really need you to explain to me what the _hell_ is going on.”

“So we were investigating this warehouse,” Neal begins, and this is the easy part of the story to tell. “And there was this suspicious shipping container. And Peter insisted that he be the one to go in first, like he does.”

Neal swears he can hear Elizabeth rolling her eyes over the phone.

“And he got sprayed with this chemical. It’s not poisonous!” he adds quickly.

“Then what is it, Neal?”

Neal really wants to say this part so fast that it’s unrecognizable, so he makes himself say it slowly and enunciate very clearly.

“It’s some kind of aerosol aphrodisiac. He’s not in danger, per se, but we don’t know what the effects are, and he’s pretty miserable right now. So, Elizabeth, I really hate to ask this, but would you be willing to drive or fly to Buffalo so that you can… perform your conjugal duties?”

Silence reigns on the other end of the phone.

Finally, Elizabeth says, “Well, why can’t you do it?”

Neal drops the phone.

“Shit, shit,” he hisses, picking it up off the floor and holding it back up to his ear. “Hi, Elizabeth, sorry about that, it’s just I could have sworn that I just heard you suggest that I sleep with your husband.”

“Well, why not?”

Neal blinks.

“…because he’s married? To you?”

“Believe it or not,” Elizabeth says, dry as bone, “I had actually noticed that part, over the past ten years. No, what I mean is, you like him, he likes you, you think he’s attractive—” Neal holds very still, even though no one can see him. “—he thinks you’re attractive—” _He does?_ Neal thinks. “—you trust him, he trusts you, you happen to be right there with him… I’m just thinking, why not, you know?”

“Elizabeth…” Neal says, nervous. “However on board you may be with the idea of your husband cheating on you with another man, I don’t really get the impression that Peter would go along with that. He loves you. He may be drugged out of his mind right now, but I’m not going to do anything that would make him hate himself later, Elizabeth.”

“I know Peter loves me,” Elizabeth tells Neal. “He loves me enough to trust that I know my own mind. If I tell him that I’m okay with this, he’ll trust that I mean it. Can you do the same, Neal?”

“Yes, Elizabeth,” Neal says meekly.

“Are _you_ okay with this, Neal?” she asks, and now she sounds worried about _him_, which is totally backwards. “I mean, I just assumed you had a crush on Peter, because, well, you act kind of like a thirteen-year-old girl around him, to be honest, but I don’t want to make you think that—”

“No, you called that one just right,” Neal says quietly, thinking that “crush” isn’t really the right word for something that sunk its hooks into him more than three years ago and still won’t let go.

“Well, then. Go have mercy sex with my husband, and tell me all about it later,” Elizabeth orders, with a smile in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” Neal replies, tipping his hat at her even though no one can see it.

Elizabeth hangs up, and Neal slowly puts the cell down on the table. He’s in an isolated corner of the warehouse where Peter had been dosed – they hadn’t been able to move him far, so he’s tied to a chair in an empty office on the other side of the building. Fortunately, the door locks, and there are grimy blinds over the one window.

Neal walks over to the office, and nods at the agents on the door.

“I’m going to go in, try to talk him down,” he says. They nod at him and step aside.

Neal takes a deep breath, puts his hand on the doorknob, and puts on his face for one of the biggest con jobs he’s ever pulled.

~*~

“Hey, Peter,” Neal says quietly, closing the door behind him. Peter looks wrecked – there are plastic ties holding his wrists and ankles to the chair, which he keeps jerking against every couple of seconds, probably involuntarily. He’s flushed, sweaty and breathing hard, and his pupils are blown so wide that Neal wonders how he can stand even the low glare of the one flickering fluorescent light overhead. His arousal is obvious even through his slacks, and the air in the stuffy room is thick with the smell of sex.

Peter’s face, of course, doesn’t betray any of this. He can pull a fair con himself, when he thinks it’s worth the effort. He doesn’t look completely composed, but then, Peter’s normal resting state is pretty harried to begin with. It twists something in Neal’s chest to see how much it’s costing Peter to hold on to the barest shreds of his dignity.

“Is Elizabeth coming?” he grits out, staring at Neal with a hope that Neal has to look away from.

“Funny story,” Neal says lightly, with a curl of a smile. “Your wife’s kind of in the middle of something right now, so she asked me if I’d do you a favor. Since we’re buddies, you and me.”

“Neal, what the hell are you talking about?” Peter asks, a thin thread of desperation gleaming in his voice.

Neal reaches his left hand up and loosens his tie, then pulls it off in one smooth motion and drops it on the floor. The way that Peter’s eyes follow it helplessly, then snap to the small patch of skin revealed at the base of his throat, tells him that even if he’s right and Elizabeth’s wrong – that in his right mind, Peter would never consider this – right here, and right now, Peter wants him.

“I’m going to help you out, Peter,” Neal says, in a low, hypnotic tone as he unbuttons the top of his shirt, and pulls off his cufflinks, setting them on the green-painted and rickety desk under the window. “I’m happy to do it – to give you a friendly hand.” He puts as much innuendo into that last phrase as he can, trying to get this part over with as quickly as possible. “Or whatever you need.”

“You can’t be serious,” Peter says, staring.

“Elizabeth said it was okay,” Neal explains quickly. “She asked me to. She knows you trust me. And she trusts me, too. To take care of you.”

“As glad as I am to hear that my wife is pimping you out to me, Neal, this is wrong. You don’t have to—”

“It’s no trouble,” Neal interrupts, in a tone he knows is sincere and warm. He slides off his suit jacket and rests it on the desk beside his cuff links, and notes the way Peter’s eyes fasten onto his bare wrists. “You’ve helped me out,” Neal says, lulling and smooth. “You’ve done so much for me, and I know it. You’ve helped me out – now I help you out. I know about that, Peter, don’t worry. Like in prison.”

Immediately Neal knows he made a misstep, because Peter’s eyes fly up to his face, and he looks revolted.

“You are _not_ my… my _bitch_, Neal,” Peter says, sounding like he might throw up. “You don’t owe me sex, you don’t owe me anyth—”

_Shit_, Neal thinks. He switches tacks smoothly and instantly.

“Of course not,” he says, with feeling. “That’s not what I meant. I just meant we’re friends, Peter, and that’s what friends do – help each other out.”

He starts to undo the rest of the buttons on his shirt, gratified by how hungrily Peter watches every inch of skin as it’s revealed. When the shirt is entirely open, Neal shrugs it off in one boneless move – he knows how good it looks. He’s practiced it in the mirror.

“You’ll let me help you, won’t you, Peter?” Neal asks, hooking his hands in the hem of his undershirt. They’ve reached the stage where Peter is ready for leading questions. “You’ll let me give you a hand, right?”

He pulls his undershirt over his head fast enough that it doesn’t look like the deliberate tease it is, and Peter lets out a choked-off moan before suddenly looking away, at the wall.

“Stop it, would you?” he asks, his voice ragged. “Damn it, Neal, just stop it.”

This is not in the script, but no one gets to be as good as Neal unless they can adapt quickly to changing conditions.

“Stop taking my clothes off?” he asks, in a deliberately non-judgmental tone.

Peter gives a sob of a laugh.

“That, too,” he says, still looking away, “but for God’s sake, Neal, just… stop trying to _con_ me.”

Neal freezes.

“What do you mean, Peter?” he asks, trying to keep his cool, but it’s not his best effort. “I’m not trying to—”

“Oh, save it,” Peter growls. “Save it for someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do.”

Neal stands and just looks at Peter, without saying a word.

He has no doubt that he _could_ con Peter, if he kept at it – he would put good money on the idea that, the minute his bare skin touches Peter’s, all of Peter’s good intentions will go out the window. He had thought that this would make it all easier – a seduction would put the blame, the responsibility, on Neal’s shoulders, not Peter’s.

But that’s not what it looks like Peter wants. He doesn’t want a sex kitten or a dirty prison fantasy. He doesn’t want the illusion of a straight-guy buddy-buddy excuse to hide behind. He doesn’t want someone to blame.

“This is the suit you wore when you caught me,” Neal says softly.

“Which time?” Peter grits out, still looking away.

“All of them.” Neal steps closer, and lays one hand on the ugly wool covering Peter’s trembling shoulder. “If I promise not to get it messy, will you let me help you, Peter?”

Now Peter looks back at Neal – when his eyes latch on to Neal’s bare skin, to his nipples drawn up tight in the chill of the room, he gasps, and closes his eyes quickly, shaking even more obviously now.

“If you’re willing to say you want this… I can be enough of a grown-up to say the same,” Peter replies, which is more of an answer than Neal had hoped for.

“I want this,” Neal breathes into Peter’s ear.

“Ditto,” Peter says curtly, and Neal throws back his head and laughs.

“Ditto?” he asks, grinning, as Peter turns around again to roll his eyes at Neal. “Ditto, Peter? Really?”

“If you wanted sonnets, you picked the wrong day, buddy,” Peter says, his hips twitching forward unconsciously, and it sounds like he’s gearing up for another one of his lengthy diatribes, so Neal leans forward and whispers, “Shut up and kiss me, you fool.”

Peter does. His mouth is warm and assertive, and he moans when Neal wraps a hand around the back of his neck.

“How long have you been waiting to use that line?” Peter pants, when they break apart.

“All my life,” Neal mumbles against his lips, smiling, then falls back into the kiss again.

It isn’t long until he’s trying to sit on Peter’s lap in the wildly uncomfortable chair that he’s tied to, and Peter is groaning in frustration, his wrists yanking against the plastic ties.

“I want to touch you,” he complains. “You’ve got to have a knife on you some place. I know you.”

“Straight from kisses to knives,” Neal murmurs, slightly distracted by the feel of Peter’s hardness against his inner thigh. “I knew there was something I liked about you.”

Peter’s right, of course – he does indeed know Neal too well – and Neal quickly cuts the plastic strips around his ankles and wrists.

“Don’t suppose you could return the favor?” he asks with a winning smile, gesturing at the monitor around his own ankle.

“You’re a funny guy,” Peter mutters, then wraps his arms around Neal and pulls down hard, bringing their erections together through the cloth of their slacks, making them both gasp.

“I need—” Peter chokes out, his pupils still huge and black, and Neal makes soothing noises.

“I promised not to get the suit messy, remember?” he asks, and slides liquidly down to kneel on the floor. At the sight of Neal on his knees, Peter groans loudly and squeezes his eyes shut again.

“You look—”

“You, too,” Neal whispers as he unzips Peter’s slacks. Peter helps him work the slacks and underwear down his legs, breaths quick and shallow as his eyes continue to feast on Neal’s face and body.

“Promise me this is okay with you,” Peter gasps, placing a hand on Neal’s shoulder just as Neal’s head bends toward his cock. “Promise me, promise me—”

“You’d believe me?” Neal asks, kind of touched.

“I know, it freaks me out, too,” Peter pants, with a shadow of a smile hidden behind the naked desperation on his face.

“I promise,” Neal says. Those words are his stock in trade – they usually mean about as much to him as “Objection, Your Honor,” means to a trial lawyer. This time is different, with Peter’s hands carefully twining through his hair as he starts to suck.

Neal’s a man who doesn’t see much point in shame or self-denial, so he’s definitely fantasized about this before. He’d imagined Peter fucking his mouth, dragging his head up and down with strong hands in his hair, stoically silent except for hard-won grunts and groans. Instead, Peter’s talkative, murmuring, “So sweet, your mouth, oh, yeah, so gorgeous, more, yeah, more,” and his hands are gentle in Neal’s hair. His control is too far gone for him to have even the pretense of manners when it comes to fucking Neal’s mouth, though, which Neal definitely doesn’t mind. His eyes water, and sometimes he chokes, but it’s worth it to hear Peter’s litany of “So good, so good, baby, you’re—that’s—ahh, yeah,” turn ragged and frantic until he spills hot and bitter down Neal’s throat.

Afterward, Neal rests his head on Peter’s thigh – he needs desperately to unzip his own trousers and jerk himself off before he dies of blue balls, but it doesn’t have to be right now, since Peter’s hand is petting his hair softly, and tracing the curve of his ear with a careful finger.

“How’s the suit?” he asks Peter lazily.

Peter scoffs. “You hate this suit.”

“Yeah.” Neal half-shrugs. “But I know you like it.”

Peter is silent for a moment after that. Then, he delicately lifts Neal’s head from his thigh, slides down surprisingly gracefully to kneel on the floor, and kisses Neal soundly.

“Mmm…” Neal purrs happily.

Peter strips off his hideous suit jacket and lays it flat on the floor.

“For your back,” he explains, bearing Neal down until his spine hits the jacket’s cheap lining, and rutting his renewed erection against Neal’s stomach.

“It’ll get dirty,” Neal protests, although he’s secretly cheering the jacket’s demise.

“I just don’t want you to get cold,” Peter mutters, looking embarrassed as he reaches down to unzip Neal’s slacks.

“An officer and a gentleman,” Neal murmurs. “Any idea how long this is going to last?” He’s asking Peter about the duration of the drug’s effects, but when Peter levels a fond look at him and says, “I’m hoping it’ll be a good long while,” he gets the feeling that they’re not talking about exactly the same thing.

~*~

Neal spends part of the plane ride from Buffalo to LaGuardia faking sleep, and a larger part actually asleep. He’s not ready to have the awkward conversation yet – some part of him is clinging to the irrational hope that when he wakes up, everything will be back to normal, and Peter will be the unattainable straight, married guy he’s always been, and Neal won’t remember what his face looks like when he comes, and the two of them will banter and snark and nothing will have changed.

He continues to feign drowsiness when Peter maneuvers him into a cab, and so he doesn’t notice until they’re already there that Peter has taken Neal to his own house, rather than June’s.

“What—” Neal starts, confused, as Peter steers him down the sidewalk and up to the front door.

Elizabeth pulls the door open and just looks at them both for a long minute, eyes bright with liquid.

“You’re okay!” she exclaims, and wraps one arm around each of them, pulling them into a fierce hug.

“You are both okay, right?” she asks after a moment, watching their faces carefully.

They nod, and she beams.

“It’s late,” Elizabeth says, in that no-nonsense way she has that puts a stop to all further discussion on the topic. “You should both go upstairs and get ready for bed.”

Neal is about to protest, but Elizabeth says firmly, “I set out a toothbrush for you, Neal,” and for some reason that stuns him enough that he stumbles docilely up the stairs behind Peter, and changes into the pajama bottoms that Elizabeth points to on the bed, and brushes and flosses his teeth, and washes his face, and somehow finds himself standing in Peter and Elizabeth’s bedroom, shirtless, with very clean teeth and no idea what’s going on.

Elizabeth comes to stand in front of him and looks up into his eyes.

“You’re family,” she says simply. “I think you have been for a while.”

“I’m a con,” he says, meaning it both in the sense of “convict” and the older meaning, the short form of “confidence man,” a quaint term for a professional liar and cheat.

“From almost eight years of hearing everything about you that a human being could possibly know, I never would have guessed,” she says mildly.

“Peter—” Neal begins, but the man in question emerges from the bathroom and stops at the sight of the two of them standing there.

“I am too tired for serious emotional discussions,” Peter announces. “I am sleeping in this bed because I am dead tired. Elizabeth is sleeping in this bed because she is my wife. You are sleeping in this bed – if you want to – because…” He blushes slightly, which is incredibly endearing. “I don’t have sex with people I don’t want to wake up next to in the morning. I never have.”

“Even when you’re drugged out of your mind?” Neal asks, keeping a slight edge in his voice.

“Even then,” Peter replies, and the gentleness in his tone makes Neal look away.

Wisely giving him some space, Peter walks away and slides under the covers, where Elizabeth joins him, after flicking off the light.

In the small circle of golden illumination from the bedside lamp, Neal can see Peter watching him.

Peter, Neal knows, can pull a pretty fair con of his own when he thinks it’s worth the effort. This could all just fall apart in the morning.

If there’s one thing Neal Caffrey has in spades, it’s the confidence to take a risk.

“Does this mean the ankle bracelet comes off?” Neal asks, smiling as he pulls back the covers and curls up against the warmth of Peter’s body.

“Hell, no,” Peter says comfortably. “I like it. It saves me the trouble of stalking you the way I stalk Elizabeth.”

“You are not putting a tracking anklet on me – I am vetoing that idea right now,” says Elizabeth.

Neal falls asleep to the sound of Peter and Elizabeth’s bickering.

It won’t be the last time.


End file.
